The Whims of Indifferent Men
There’s nothing more heartbreaking than to be held at the whims of an indifferent man.
"The wounded child inside many males is a boy who, when he first spoke his truths, was silenced by paternal sadism, by a patriarchal world that did not want him to claim his true feelings. The wounded child inside many females is a girl who was taught from early childhood that she must become something other than herself, deny her true feelings, in order to attract and please others. When men and women punish each other for truth telling, we reinforce the notion that lies are better. To be loving we willingly hear the other’s truth, and most important, we affirm the value of truth telling. Lies may make people feel better, but they do not help them to know love.”
-Bell Hooks, All About Love
I’m sitting at the dinner table of my childhood home. Family and extended family are nestled on its periphery, a warm and inviting scene at first glance. The big pine table was one of the first foundational purchases my parents made as newlyweds, just shy of 22 years old. Building a life together, buying furniture. The fragility disguised with a smooth, waxed finish—an underbelly of broken bits glossed over with swoop after swoop of Pinesol. The hope and harsh reality energetically strapped to the tables’ legs.
Dad is on one side, Mom on the other. They are separated, unlike my brother and his wife, and his in-laws, who sit nestled close together, elbows brushing with each sip of Pinot. My Dad is physically there, his body in the chair, his broody aura, his hunched posture, his harsh presence. Yet mentally, he’s somewhere in the stratosphere, staring off into a place far away from the polished, glossy, big pine table. He eventually snaps out of his atmospheric comatose to grab the bottle of wine and generously pours himself a glass. It was the sixth or the seventh. I lose count, but my mother doesn’t. Her disapproving glances are missed by my father because of the general distance between them. It’s the way she has looked at him for the last twenty years of their marriage.
Our table conversations are always filled with familial and wisecracking humor. Stories of the past, tales of the present, things that embarrass certain family members, snarky banter. Something is said, and five minutes later Dad chimes in on a topic that was left long ago. I shake my head and laugh because he’s “just Mike Blackwell.” His tendencies for missing social cues and needing to internalize before he speaks is something I not only understand but can laugh at.
But the truth is he’s drunk.
But the truth is he’s removed.
Drunk and removed.
I exaggerate these words because that’s exactly how I describe the majority of men I have chosen to be in a relationship with in my adult life. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy of my own demise.
I got dressed that day and wondered to myself what a woman is supposed to wear when she is breaking up with her boyfriend. All black, like I’m attending a funeral? Florals to bring light to the situation? Sweats to show that I have had a difficult time getting out of bed, perhaps garnering a bit of sympathy? Do I do my hair? Do I look my best so I can remind him what he’s missing? Do I care? Why do I even care?
He gets out of his car and looks at me with eyes down casted, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets. It’s peculiar how this soon-to-be assassin could look so defeated. He’s hiding his gauntlet of ultimate dismissal—a glorious act, I imagine. I hold eye contact to see if he will meet me. He doesn’t. Truthfully, I don’t think he ever did. Yet there’s an air about him, like he cares as much as he can to be the good guy, so he can forgive himself, but also removed enough to cause no harm. No harm to him anyway—that burden is left for me.
I have learned enough through therapy and endless sessions centering around my drunk and removed father to not point fingers, to simply be curious and ask questions. Questions I don’t want to hear the answers to. I listen while quietly wincing inside. Nails on the chalkboard of truths-I-don’t-want-to-hear. The truth is difficult hear, but it’s essential. Sometimes it’s easier to look directly into the sun instead of a mirror.
When the conversation is over, when the relationship has officially run its course, when it’s stamped with its own expiration date like I’m some gallon of milk, I excuse him. He gets out of the car, no air of grief or sadness, perhaps a little relief. I watch him walk away, with his hands in his pockets and veering right to check the surf. There’s a certain inner casualty that happens to a woman when she feels as insignificant as a stubbed toe or a provoked funny bone. Something inside of us, something inside of me croaks at the whims of a man who both discards and refuses to see me. Perhaps that something is my unanswered moans, meant to sound something like hope. Yet it’s not the kind of inner casualty that gives way to new life. Perhaps it does eventually, but it’s the kind of demise that leaves a stench on everything it touches. An entire foundation of simply existing now reeks of loss. I’m writing the eulogy, part of me is embalmed, formaldehyde tickling my senses—and his brain thinks, “Wow, I wonder what the surf is doing.”
I drive away so I don’t have to witness his next moves. I imagine him getting in his car, forgetting it all happened, taking a quick stop at the liquor store and buying a six pack on his way home. I should really cut back on these, he thinks to himself. Yet the warm tingly numbing elixir is the only salve he needs from looking at himself. From looking at me. Does drunk and removed ring a bell?
There’s nothing more heartbreaking than to be held at the whims of an indifferent man. It’s true that there’s a kind of relational hierarchy to be found in the grandeur of uncaring. It’s a genius protective mechanism. It makes one less vulnerable to others. The less you care, the more of the upper hand you have. Yet that protection can also come at a steep price—there’s a depth that will never be stirred; there’s intimacy that will never be touched. I’ve come to find much greater value in my vulnerability, in my feeling, in my depth. Even if it’s like participating in a relationship that sits too close to the bone of my own history. One that keeps repeating itself.
Time heals all wounds. History repeats itself. I hear this jargon. I laugh at the clichés. It’s as tender as it is repulsive. Yet time doesn’t heal the deepest wounds, the ones closest to the bone. Imago theory states that we attract partners who mirror the wounds of our caregivers, in search for a better ending. We want to rewrite our own history. Time is not an eraser. Time is not invisible ink. Time lessens the sting as it is buried into the deep ravines of our being. Time only blurs the experience. What we bury, we also carry.
My choices are the equivalent of gulping my younger self’s grief. I’m tending to my wounds with different flesh, a different face, a different body. Rotating doors of relational mirrors. Relational band aids ripping off before the blood has a chance to clot. Time does not heal all wounds, our choices do. History does not repeat itself if we remember to choose differently. I don’t think I need a removed, indifferent man with a band aid. I’m learning the need to suture myself.